


Blow the Blues

by HerSistersKeeper



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: 1920s, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Crime runs in the family, Dark Rey, F/M, Falling In Love, Flappers, Friends to Lovers, Gangsters, Kylo Ren is Ben Solo, Kylo/Ben is a gas station attendant, Like Moulin Rouge, Like The Great Gatsby, Nightclub, Organized Crime, Rey is a Singer, Rey is gritty, So Han used to be a gangster..., and Ben Solo is innocent as hell, like Chicago
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-09-02 07:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8655322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerSistersKeeper/pseuds/HerSistersKeeper
Summary: (Inspired by Nonibear11's post) 1920’s Flapper Reylo. Ben is a lowly gas station attendant who falls in love with flashy nightclub dancer Rey when she stops by his gas station because her car broke down. Little does Ben know that the car is owned by club owner/gangster Snoke who has set his sights on the lovely Rey…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ReyloRobyn2011](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReyloRobyn2011/gifts).



> Thank you so much to Nonibear11 for letting me write this AU! It's taken a lot longer to get started than anticipated, but I'm excited to do my best!

_Based on this[prompt/post](http://hersisterskeeper.tumblr.com/post/153038897468/hersisterskeeper-nonibear11-nonibear11) by nonibear11_

* * *

 

He’d never get away from here. It was a thought that always flickered through his mind every morning when he rose, simple denim work pants meeting the usual cotton shirt as he dressed, watching the sun struggle to rise on his family’s livelihood. There was nothing exciting or glamourous along these dirt roads, this oil stained concrete floor, his role as town mechanic keeping him from getting too bored, kept him from yearning for the big city. For something beyond this.

The sun was bright, slanting through the cheap window blinds as Ben Solo groggily trudged through the little roadside store, glancing about, ticking off various mental checklists. The garage was ready for any repairs for the day, his cheek already flecked dark from the oil change he did earlier, cursing his friend Poe for waiting so long. His tools were laid out, ready for a quick tune up, though the heavy wrench by the register was for thugs who thought the lanky man was too gentle to fight, as if he wasn’t a war veteran. The gas pump stood proud and ready outside, prepared for a long day of business. The man bit back a snicker as he strode past the back of the store, the little commercial icebox sticking out like a sour thumb, his mother’s touch on the “masculine” store.

 This past year, his mother had insisted on adding the little cooler, stocked with bright, colorful soda pops, much to his father’s chagrin. It was an oddly cheerful machine, red and silver chrome standing out among the various bottles of motor oil and car fluid—but it made their little filling station that much more popular compared to the ones down the road, even if those stations were closer to the city. Just one of many reasons an interesting array of customers came through the door, pulled up to the pumps.

Usually the crowd that came by weren’t anything special—old family friends, citizens of the little surrounding town. No, the crowd he liked to watch, liked to pretend he was a part of, came from the city.

Ben was sure that at least half of them had connections to the mob—hell, he was sure that his father used to—with their sullen faces and dark eyes. They’d pull up, only nod and he’d get to work—no questions would be asked between them and the lowly gas station attendant that he was, and it was better that way. He’d peek at them, wonder if there was a body in the trunk of the red-haired one they called Hux, if the tall blonde with him was his dame or a part of his gang. He only wondered about them sometimes though, more interested in their occasional company—chicks who looked like they should be at home or trying to go to college, instead nodding along with their bobbed hair and painted smiles.

He felt a simper prick his lips, mind instantly alighting on a particular customer who suited that description…but with a shrug, he banished that particular waif’s face. She wasn’t his doll—just a looker who came through every Monday with glitter in her navy car’s seats, brightly dressed and surrounded by flappers and flaming youths, all snazzy in their dance shoes, shrieking with laughter.

She was noticeable because of her silence. Ben knew that this girl was a canary, that singing was her job, that she was loud and flashy and glitzy on command. When he first saw her face in person, not on some advertisement plastered across every wall in town, despite her shows being inner city attractions, he had expected a grin and excited eyes. He had expected her to talk to everyone, to have a brassy, bold voice even when speaking, that maybe she’d sing more than speak. But she didn’t, looking coolly around her, sizing up her surroundings, letting her crowd being the ones to tumble about, shimmying to silence, their pleas for a song from her met with a somewhat cruel teasing slip of a simper.

She never said anything to him in front of them, looking careless, her glassy eyes at one time slipping past him and to the pump. Back at that point, he’d watch her and her movements, her grinning mouth and shrugging shoulders as she laughed at her companions as they called to her from the storefront, arms full of soda from the icebox, turning when she’d tell them to pick whatever they wanted for her. When they turned their backs, her face would slip, and suddenly the rouged mouth was a pout, her made up eyes heavy and glazed with fear.

Rey. Ben only knew her name from her friends’ shrieking for her attention, fawning about her like the sheba she was. He had tried not to talk to her much, but she was the one trying to talk to him more now, after coming alone a few times. Of all the times she had come by herself, only twice had he worked up the courage to talk to her first.

 The first time, the very first time she came alone, he had asked, “Who are you?” She had looked surprised, eyes wide, as if she just now realized that there was a human, a walking and talking man, pumping her gas, her nails pausing in their tapping on the car door, the dark blue paint glossy under her gloved hand. Her eyes were perplexed, her brows suspicious, touching her hair as she shrugged at him, lips pinched before she reached out, dropping an extra two dollars in his hand and driving off, leaving behind frustration and dust clouds. He was sure that she wouldn’t be back, with or without her friends.

The second time, when she had proved him wrong and came back, when he was determined not to look at her, nursing a hangover and a bruised ego, she answered him. “I’m just a dancer.” He could hear her fingers tapping the steering wheel now, confidence restored with some sort of rhythm that she was probably memorizing for her performance that night, at whatever club she danced at. She sighed at his silence, as if he was playing hard to get, as if he was the mysterious one who should be opening up, not her.

“Just a dancer?” He had scoffed at her, glancing at her, wondering where her makeup was today, her clothes plain and dark, her brown hair curling naturally at her cheeks, around her ears, not in the straight tresses she usually wore. That day, she was certainly not the glamour gal of previous visits. That day, they were just a couple of people, neither of them lower than the other, a bit more equal than before. She had scoffed back at him. “What are you? An artist or something?”

“No…just a mechanic.” He felt self-conscious, feeling the grease staining his jeans all the more, wondering if she’d prefer an artist, someone to paint numerous portraits of her, someone to write countless songs for her to dance to. Rey had simply smiled at him this time though, dropping a five in his hand as she started the engine. “Good—I never much liked artists anyways.” Her nod of approval made her face solemn, and he wanted to laugh at her as she concluded: “Practical. Useful. Don’t really need artists anyways.”

She was a mystery, and Ben wondered if she ever thought of him onstage, from her artistic perch, if she ever wanted him to watch her. He wondered if she considered him a friend. She certainly acted like it, her bored and sophisticated façade dropping when her friends walked away, instantly asking a million questions of him, ignoring how he struggled to keep his face smooth and un-invested. He was very much invested, and he could rattle off a hypothetical conversation of theirs in a second—all questions for him, no answers from her, like:

What was his name?

            Ben Solo.

How old was he?

            He turned twenty-nine this past June.

What was he planning for the day?

            Just working on the cars, visiting his friend Poe at the grocer’s, maybe pick up some potatoes for dinner, like his mother asked.

Oh, his mother—is she nice? What’s his pa like?

 

And on and on.

It was a frivolous thought, one that wouldn’t change this Tuesday morning into anything special, he decided with a jerk of his head, ears pricking up at an automobile’s rumble outside. Business as usual. He rubbed his eyes, dragging his hands down his face in exhaustion, stifling a yawn as he reached up, yanking the blinds up and taking his first look outside.

He recognized the car—how could he not, the navy hue screaming out to him. Ben found himself wincing, seeing how the paint was flecked off in spots, though scratched may be a better word, seeing how the metal had been torn—maybe by a railing, maybe by another car—along the passenger side. He could make out the shape of Rey’s head, there, lounging back against the seat’s headrest, eyes closed, breathing ragged, and his heart choked for a second.

His strides to the door were long and fast, ducking outside, gaze sweeping across the store’s lot, wondering if there was some hidden car, someone waiting to finish the dancer off. He didn’t want to even entertain the thought, stopping short of the car, peering at the girl’s stiff form. Ben knew that Rey was mixed up with a few gangs, having heard a few of her companions brag about their connections, whining about how she seemed to get all the good attention, dropping names. Other times, she would be in a car with that mobster Hux, grimacing whenever he mentioned someone named Snoke.

“Rey!” Ben felt foolish, his whisper loud, knowing that if someone wanted to gun him down, they’d have done it by now. The girl’s eyes instantly snapped open, her dazed look taking a moment as she attempted to focus on him. She was paler than usual, her makeup smeared, the eyeshadow and mascara smudged around her eyes almost macabre. There was a wet red flicked across her pale pink dress, the material torn, and the mechanic muttered a prayer that it was wine, that maybe she had driven drunk, that maybe this was a giant misunderstanding.

“Oh, hiya Ben! Got a light?” She had a cigarette in hand, and she held it out to him, smiling crookedly, as if this was any other day, as if this was just another casual conversation starter. He stared at her, stunned at her nonchalance, almost relieved when she lost her nerve, hand dropping, shoulders slumping.

“The blood isn’t mine.” Rey gestured down at her frock, watching the man before her ease and then tense at the information, sighing with annoyance as he sputtered. She hadn’t said that she had killed someone, for pity’s sake—but then again, she had to remember that Ben hadn’t been to the city in some time, that he didn’t know how rough the clubs could get, or how jealous other men could be. She shuddered at that thought, jerking back from a gentle weight on her shoulder with weary instinct, instantly stilling, mollified. It was just Ben touching her, checking on her. This was normal behavior on his part, and so she kept her mouth shut, offering a tight lipped smile as he opened the car door for her, trying not to feel flattered at the gesture.

He wasn’t trying to be a gentleman. The girl had to remind herself this as she winced upon standing and he instantly told her to lean into him, swooping her up into his arms when she protested. She knew, from movies and magazines, that she was being carried like a bride. Considering the rough and tumble crowd she found herself around, Rey never expected to be carried like one, especially not when she was covered in another man’s blood, especially not after showing up at the front stoop of a man she barely knew in a wrecked car at the crack of dawn.

“Ben, you can put me down. I can walk just fine.” She scowled at him, as if to emphasize that she was not dainty, that she was gritty, but he rolled his eyes at her. “If you want, I can throw you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Either way, I’m carrying you.” He smirked at her huff, her gaze trying to fall on anything but him, eventually settling over his shoulder.

“The car…can you fix my car?” There was that fearful glaze again, her eyes far off. He knew she wasn’t thinking about the car, that she was focused on whoever owned the car and what they could do to her if she didn’t turn up with it.

If he was a smart man, Ben Solo would have turned Rey away, sent her to one of the mechanics up the way, kept himself out of this dangerous business this girl called her life. But he knew he wasn’t a smart man. He had never claimed to be.

“Yeah. I can fix the car.” Rey’s sigh was heavy in his ears, and as he headed past the store, to his family’s little ramshackle farmhouse far behind it, he tried to ignore her whisper. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to repay you.”

He muttered something back, and the girl feigned not hearing, appreciating the murmur despite herself. “You don’t have to worry about that.” It was unusual for her—but Ben was an unusual man; simple, unassuming, harmless. Rey didn’t question it, letting herself be carried away from the car, feeling a bit freer with every step.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think!

The Solos were nice—Rey would shout that to the heavens and back if she could, appreciating the lack of questions from the parents as Ben tromped in with her in arms, interrupting breakfast. Watching the father and mother simply glide into their next actions without more than a raised eyebrow made her wonder what they had seen, if dealing with random bloody girls was just one of many weekly occurrences, if she just filled a quota of unusual bumps in their day.

 After they were formally introduced to their strange little visitor, the two elders simply exchanged a look before father followed son to bring the car into the garage. Ben had smiled at her before he trudged out again, the girl finding herself echoing the look, cheeks coloring a bit as his father, Han, snorted, smile deep set in his rough face as he trailed behind his son. Before the door closed, Rey could hear the question, probably asked so that she could hear it, be a witness to its implications: “So that’s the dame you’re dizzy with? Cute girl.”

Ben’s mother, Leia, sighed after the two, rolling her eyes and glancing at the girl apologetically. “Ignore the old coot. He just likes embarrassing the boy.” The young woman nodded slowly, mind whirling about, asking herself again and again: _could it be true?_ For her, the question continued to hang overhead, answer just out of reach, as she was bid to sit down, a plate of pancakes pushed in front of her, something to keep her distracted as the older woman looked her over, worrying over the amount of blood on her dress. Rey stifled an appreciative groan at the first bite—or really, any bite of the homemade food. It had been a while since she had even _smelled_ home cooking, room service and city restaurants making up the bulk of her food source.

“Oh, you poor dear, you…” The dancer let the mother tut over her, hands gentle as she was examined, a grateful sigh departing the gracefully wrinkled face with every confirmation that the girl was fine, that it really wasn’t her blood. Leia had a round softness to her, a quality that reminded Rey of a pillow she once stole from a hotel—nice smelling, comfortable, dependable. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been treated so sweetly, so genuinely, and in the warm glow of the kitchen, the white walls now swallowing the sun’s color as it crept through the large window, she felt at home.

She felt self-conscious when Leia finished—not because of the physical examination, but because her stomach still growled, calling for more food, the taste of home addicting. The mother only chuckled, sweeping a hand out to the stove with a smile. “Help yourself—there’s more food than we need. I’ll go start that bath…we’ll have you cleaned up in no time.”

The bath gave her the moment of privacy she needed this morning, sinking back into the simple tub, face smoothing to a frown. Just a few hours ago, a man had been shot because of her. It had been an innocent situation at the beginning—she had finished her set, her feet sore and tired from shimmying across stage, her voice aching from the many encores she had given, the club’s patrons always deafening in their demands. He, this mystery man, had offered to walk her to the car, to be a chaperone for the short distance, and she hadn’t wanted to wait for Snoke’s men—she had wanted to go back to her hotel right then, and despite the bathwater’s heat, she found herself shivering with what came next.

Snoke was a jealous man, a mobster who didn’t like to wait, didn’t like to share. For the past year, she had been dancing around him, accepting his protection but teasing him on, uninterested in the rest of his offer—to be his moll, his little arm candy, subject to his leers and kisses and wandering hands. Despite her disinterest, the kingpin stepped in whenever he felt that a reminder was needed, a “gentle” warning of what could happen if she was without his protection.

Last night was a reminder in patience, she decided, crossing her arms and pulling herself into a ball, wishing that the hot water could soak into her and clean her of more than the glitter and blood that still remained on her skin. Because she couldn’t wait another minute or two, her companion had a bullet deposited into his chest, the boy—he had barely been old enough to get into the club, she remembered him saying—tumbling back into her, her thin arms struggling to hold him up, her scream still piercing her ears, still ringing like her old town’s church bells. She had seen the assailant’s face, and really, she didn’t need to, watching the blood slip and seep into the sidewalk of Snoke’s nightclub, regular patrons and cronies of his not so much glancing over as they passed—and she had run.

In hindsight, Rey knew that it had been a coward’s way out, dropping the boy and running, but she hadn’t had much of a choice. Sure, any member of the mob would know better than to so much as scratch her, but she didn’t want to test their limits that night, remembering three separate brawls that had broken out during her time onstage. Snoke’s Order was tense that night, and there was no way to tell how far they’d go, how much they’d forget in their desire for violence.

She didn’t know how long she had been in the tub, only that her fingers were pruney and that Leia had left her a note by the towel and clothes set out for her. Rey glanced over the note, allowing the chilly air to nip at her as she sat in her towel. _I have the guest room made up for you if you’re tired. Han and I went to town. Ben is in the garage if you need him._

The dancer couldn’t say that she was tired enough to sleep. It had only been just recently that the adrenaline had started filtering out of her, her heart calming once she was safe in the Solo house. She shrugged on the offered shirt, the white cloth sturdy and yet soft on her skin. The sleeves were too long, covering her hands, but she struggled on, pushing the extra material up her arms, trying to keep them out of her way as she struggled with the offered pants. The thought of wearing pants was a rebellious one, and despite her situation, Rey grinned, ignoring that the probable reason for the jeans being offered was out of practicality, that they were the closest to her size.

The clothes smelled like Ben. It was a simple scent, she realized, wandering through the house, to the kitchen and out the door, setting her sights on the garage. He smelled like simple, white soap and like homemade bread, as if the smell baked itself into the clothes. There was a tinge of grease there as well, but it didn’t bother her—it just reminded her that he worked with his hands, that he was practical in his knowledge, not trying to impress anyone with fancy words.

The garage wasn’t what she had been expecting, the flapper glancing about the cluttered space as she let herself in to the workspace, the door closing softly behind her. If she had to pick a favorite part of the Solo homestead, she’d quickly settle for the family’s kitchen and washroom, the space clean and bright, with Ben’s mother clucking over her like a mother hen, but she was sure that the garage had some hidden charm, somewhere. Rey felt absolutely foreign to herself as she picked her way through the mess: a rogue engine here, the body of a car suspended here. In the middle of this mess was her hero, too engrossed in his task to look up, maybe even hear her when she came in. She knew that she hadn’t been quiet—not even her dancer feet could be silent in the chaotic workshop.

“What are you doing?” Rey winced as she watched Ben startle, jerking up and into the car’s hood, away from the engine that he had been leaning over the past half hour. Despite herself, a smile twisted on her lips as he uttered a curse, the foul word out of place in the gentle man’s mouth. She smoothed her face as he swung around, rubbing the back of his head, feeling a bump already forming.

“You look better.” She nodded slowly as he set his wrench down, leaning against the car and wiping his hands on his jeans, the grease leaving long ebony streaks across the denim. Rey struggled to keep the nervous smile off her face as he looked her up and down, a grin stretching across his cheeks as he realized that she was wearing his clothes, shaking his head and chuckling before turning back to his work.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Hm?” Ben knew it was rude, borderline ignoring his guest, but he wasn’t sure what to say, what to do, keeping his eyes glued to the engine. Perhaps he had hoped that she would turn out to be a prima donna, not want to get dirty, keep herself away so that he could escape this experience unscathed by feelings. But she was here, and now she was dragging a stool over, assuming a perch next to his tools, examining them with a scrunched brow as if they would tell her what they were, as if she didn’t want to bother him with questions.

“Can I help?” He opened his mouth to tell her no, that he’d much prefer that she kept her distance, that she was making it hard to concentrate as it was, that he wouldn’t be able to work with her sitting there, asking to be looked at, her damp hair curling as it dried, his old shirt sitting on her frame better than it ever had when he was small enough to fit in it. What came out of his mouth wasn’t any of that. “Why do you want to help?”

 “I don’t want to owe you anything.” She crossed her arms as he looked at her again, her pursed lips and furrowed brow being adorable and frustrating, and he shook his head with a laugh. “Listen—you don’t owe me money or anything.” He saw worry flicker across her face, as if she heard that phrase all too often, biting her lip anxiously.

“If you wanted to keep me company, though, I’ll consider this paid in full.” In a flash, the worry was gone, and she smiled up at him, mouth opening, probably with another question for him, like usual. He cut her off, smirk widening as an idea grew. “In fact, how about this—you answer any question I have. No lies, no exaggerations—just the truth.”

She balked, like he knew she would, her mouth gaping at him. She settled though, crossing her legs with a sigh. “Alright.”

“So Rey—got a last name?” She rolled her eyes at him, and he did have to admit, it was a bit of a lame question, and he nearly amended it. “Kenobi. My last name is Kenobi. I never use it though.” She wouldn’t look at him, as if the answer was too painful, as if his gaze sat too heavy on her.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?” He turned back to the car, his hands settling back into familiar patterns, listening to her voice become stronger, more confident, now that his eyes weren’t on her. “It doesn’t really glide the way it should on the announcer’s tongue—at least, that’s what Finn at the club says.”

They remained like this for the afternoon, Rey talking, Ben fixing. The day felt shorter, time condensing itself to answers, not minutes. The dancer had explained the actions of the night before, snipping it down, streamlining it for comfort, but he didn’t say anything, shaking his head in pity for the poor man who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. For anyone else, it would have been enough to send them running, to get the job done and then never speak to the girl again. He didn’t particular care to do that, he realized, looking at the girl as she played with the shirt’s hem, explaining her situation in a halting voice.

He couldn’t say that it was all her fault that a man was dead—the only thing she was guilty of was having a pretty face and needing to live. The fact that there was another man trying to take advantage of that to get what he wanted from her, that this other man was willing to possibly hurt her made Ben grit his teeth, willing himself to remain silent. If he could, he’d offer Rey an out—but he wasn’t in the position to do so, knowing that this gangster Snoke would simply track her down. He could maybe help her change her name, but the first way to do that would be through marriage, and Ben seriously doubted that the girl liked him enough to even consider that as a plausible idea. So he remained neutral, asking questions until they were away from the harrowing story, until there was a smile on Rey’s face again, recounting stories from before she danced in clubs.

Eventually, the mechanic gave in, answering questions, tit for tat, the dancer moving closer to watch him work, now on the car’s body, trying to figure out what he could salvage of the twisted metal. Between questions of her first haircut (she had taken kitchen shears to her tresses when she was sixteen, before she ran away from the orphanage and started dancing) and of why he was still in the family business (didn’t like leaving his family, but he did like to work on cars—they were interesting), she explained that she had accidentally scrapped the car’s sides against an alley wall, trying to get out of her parking space in a hurry, the valet having done a shitty job that didn’t allow for fast getaways.

“Then again, Mitaka was probably told to do that, so I can’t be mad.” She sighed, shrugging at the questioning look, exhaustion peeking through. “Don’t envy me, Ben. I know you do…or you’re curious about it at least. Don’t be. City life… it isn’t nice. It’s dirty and tough and you wouldn’t like it.”

“Oh yeah?” He smirked at her, leaning against the car, looking over the roof at her, perched on the opposite side, trying to stay out of his way. “So you’re saying that, if I were to go to your club tonight in my Sunday best, to watch you dance, I wouldn’t like it?” Rey flushed scarlet, and Ben couldn’t help but feel a jolt of pride at the knowledge that she was blushing because of him, her smile nervous and yet flattered.

“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying that they would eat you alive. They’ll know you’re too good for this world and they’ll take you out back and get rid of you.” Rey knew that she shouldn’t be grinning at this—she was honestly afraid that it would happen if he should ever wander out of his world and into hers—but watching the man laugh, throwing his head back and really laughing at the idea, she couldn’t help it, her heart thudding in her ears when he looked at her fondly.

“Well…as long as they do it after I see you dance, I suppose I’d still think it was a swell time.” She snorted at him, trying to stay calm as he stepped around the car, coming to her side, standing over her stool. She didn’t know what he was about to do, if there was something that he wanted behind her or if he was about to kiss her…and really, she didn’t know what she wanted him to do. He leaned down, reaching behind her and turning a radio on, the set bulky behind her, the invisible announcer a loudmouth as he blabbered on, talking about the news, about the special program airing tonight.

 Ben straightened and she looked up, keeping her gaze steady on him, ready for him to disappear, retreat, ignoring the intense mood between them. He looked taken aback, as if he wasn’t ready to step away but he wasn’t sure what more to do, looking at her face, glancing at her eyes, her nose, her mouth. Rey wondered what would happen if she reached up and tugged at his collar, if he’d stoop down, if she would only have to straighten up in her seat to reach his face, if he’d allow her to be so forward as to kiss him.

She took a breath and cautiously touched his arm, hand climbing up until it rested on his shoulder. Ben’s face was solemn, as if she was about to bestow an honor on him, not a kiss—but then the radio broke in, smashing the quiet mood, the jazz singer’s loud warble making the pair jump, laughing at their mutual fright, both glancing down.

“Are you going to dance for me?” She knew that he was teasing, and so she smiled up at him, trying to calm herself after her small attempt at bravery. “I only dance at the club. If you ever see me dance, it’s only because I invited you to the show. Nothing else.” She expected that to be the end of this dancing talk, that he would shrug and go back to work, not about to entertain her coyness.

“How about dancing cheek to cheek?” He was watching her closely, trying to gauge her reaction, and Rey appreciated that, knowing far too many men who’d just grab her to dance with them, not even so much as saying hello before they did so. Ben at least seemed concerned for her comfort, and perhaps that’s why she came to him that morning. True, she had worn that engine practically down to nothing, being rough with her brakes and speeding when she could. She could have gone to any mechanic and hidden out in their shop while waiting to have it fixed—but she came to Ben. He was special.

Her “friends” teased her incessantly about him whenever they pulled out of the gas station, accusing her of aiming too low, that he was too simple for her, that she’d get bored with him and toss him away if she ever did pluck up the nerve to be his doll. She had to disagree, a sentiment she found herself repeating as she looked up into his dark eyes. He was very interesting, and would never turn her away, even if it was a smart thing to do, even if she had hurt him. He wouldn’t force attention on her, unlike Snoke—in fact, he was the complete opposite of all the phonies and thugs she dealt with every day, and that made him that much better.

He offered his hand to her, and she took it, allowing herself to stand up, her feet no longer aching, no longer tired, despite the lack of sleep. The music had slowed, and her breath hitched as Ben pulled her close, in part out of necessity with the garage’s cramped space—but she hoped that it was also because he wanted to be close to her like she wanted to be close to him.

They had barely taken a step when there was a knocking on the garage’s door, Han’s gruff voice louder than the radio. “Rey, there’s someone here to see you.” From his father’s tone, Ben knew that he was suspicious of the visitor, that if he had a choice, he’d have sent them off. He glanced over at Rey, who sighed, steeling herself. “Someone here to collect me, probably.” He squeezed her hand and she flashed a thin smile at him before letting go, the two now emerging from the workshop.

The red-haired man, Hux, stood beside Han, his serious demeanor broken by a lone raised eyebrow as he looked at the girl and her pants. He ignored how Ben glared at him, only focusing on Rey who smiled and shrugged at him. “My dress was dirty—I got into an accident with the car.” He didn’t question it, instead nodding thoughtfully and waving her to him, inspecting her.

“Phasma’s waiting in the car for you. She’s been worried sick about you, even more than Mr. Snoke.” Hux ignored how she tensed, pushing her off towards the vehicle, turning to follow without even a question about the car. Ben supposed that the gangster probably considered Rey the more important thing to retrieve, that the car was inconsequential, something to come back for.

 

He tried not to look at Rey as the sleek black sedan pull out of the lot, but he knew her eyes were on him until dust clouds obstructed her view. She confirmed it, days later, on Monday again, the weekly routine easing his worries, trying not to rush to the car, trying to keep his head down, noticing Hux’s blonde dame in the driver’s seat, that she was the only companion that day.

“Hey, Phas, will you be a peach and get me a soda? Mr. Snoke gave you my spending money again, didn’t he?” Despite her pouting plea, the mechanic knew that Rey didn’t really care about the soda, her hazel eyes on his in the instant that Phasma disappeared into the store. In a moment, there was a piece of paper pressed into his hand, and a kiss pressed to his cheek, and Ben wasn’t sure how he managed to gas up the car in his daze, only that she was here one moment and leaving in the next.

Later, after dinner, after his mother asked him again how Rey was, if she’d be coming back, Ben unfolded the note. He tried to ignore its scent—delicate, smelling like vanilla and lavender, probably her perfume—focusing instead on the words, written in sloping cursive:

_Ben—_

_My next big performance is this Saturday, and I want you to come. Keep the car and drive it to the Imperial Club, and be sure that you clean yourself up…my friend Finn will be on the lookout for you. Try to blend in, baby—I don’t want you to get filled with lead, okay?_

_\--Rey_

He considered for a moment, even though he knew that he was going. He was too far in as it was, and as he said before…as long as he saw her dance before he was bumped off, he still had a good time. Ben absentmindedly kissed the envelope before setting it aside, turning to the closet, wondering how he’d blend in to the dark crowd of gangsters and molls.


	3. Chapter 3

Ben wasn’t sure what he could expect when they pulled up to the Imperial Club’s curb, warily eyeing the valet as he handed over the keys, the marquee’s light flashing above them, illuminating and darkening faces with its flickering. Every other moment, he feared that everything could go wrong. He worried that there would be a suspicious glare as the hired boy’s eyes slid to the restored car, a possible note of recognition to be found in the glossy blue paint, but felt his nerves calm as he watched a hand stuff a dollar bill into the valet’s hand.

“A tip.” His friend Poe grinned good naturedly at the surprised help, who tipped their hat, rushing off to park the car, no longer paying any attention to details, just the weight of the money in his hand. Of the two of them, Poe had more experience, gained with a few extra years on Earth compared to Ben, something that the younger man couldn’t help but feel grateful for. This wasn’t the town grocer’s first time at a club, but this club was still novel to him, a fact clarifying as the mechanic watched his friend glance at every face they passed. He just hoped that they blended in, their suits and hats nice—but not too nice, smudges of grease and dirt unavoidable when trying to leave the countryside behind. This wasn’t their world, an obvious fact as fat cats pushed past them, vixens on their arms, snottily staring the two down, heads swiveling away with harrumphs.

“What do we do now?” Poe wanted to laugh at his friend’s ignorance, but instead smiled, lips tight, completely aware of the curious gazes on them, club patrons shuffling around them, streaming into the club in droves, some trickling out. He knew the dangers of the club, although this would be his first outing that wasn’t for the sake of pleasure. No, he was here at the request—no, the demands—of Han and Leia, their foreheads creased in worry even as he reassured them that he’d keep their son out of trouble. He knew they weren’t worried about his behavior. They were worried about him not coming back.

Ben wasn’t that oblivious; he made it clear to Poe that he knew that it was dangerous, what he wanted to do, descending into a pit of bastards for the sake of a crush. They both knew that, even if they didn’t anger anyone, even if they kept their noses clean, there was a chance that they could be hurt, clubs being violent by nature. Still, the drive to the club had been silent, and the silence remained still, despite the noise of traffic, the musical ruckus blaring from the club’s open entrance. The grocer looked after the mechanic warily, smiling despite himself at his wide-eyed fascination by the city and its nightlife. He didn’t realize how much he let his guard down until he jumped, a gentle tap on his shoulder lurching him back into reality, where a stray bullet from a gangster’s rifle could end a perfectly good night out.

“Ben Solo?” The two country boys stared at the dark man, befuddled, for a moment taken aback at this stranger as he cleared his throat. He grinned good-naturedly at them, taking their surprise in stride. “I’m going to take that as a maybe. I’m Finn Storm. Rey told me to keep an eye out for her friend...” He flinched as Ben jolted forward, feverishly shaking his hand, recovering enough to laugh. “Well then…shall we?” The mechanic held his breath, forced himself to nod, tried to find tranquility in the calm smile, letting himself be lead into the club, conversation loud and fleeting around him.

The club was loud, people lurching into him every other second: waiters with trays of drinks held aloft, gangsters and dames. His gaze didn’t flinch from the back of Finn’s head, keeping his eyes off the assortment of people, knowing it’d be rude to stare, no matter how much his curiosity begged him to. From his peripheral sight, he knew that there were gangsters seated sporadically throughout the club, the only indication of difference between powerful men and other patrons being a gleam—the gleam of an expensive ring, a costly watch, a big gun. Girls were at every table, usually on someone’s arm, and Ben feared that Rey would be at one of the crowded tables, that he’d see her being petted by this mysterious Snoke…but then Finn waved them over, towards the back of the club, towards the stage, and there was a flutter of gratitude in the mechanic’s throat.

There was some singer onstage now, breathy and mediocre, the crowd’s smattering applause saying as much. “Is that Rey?” Poe’s question was loud in Ben’s ears, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure who was more offended by the assumption: himself or Finn, a frown set deeply into his face as he paused, glancing at the stage and shaking his head in disgust. “If that was Rey, you wouldn’t have to ask. Come on—she’s back here.”

The hallway he led them down was dark, and cramped, dancers filing past dressing rooms, chattering amongst themselves, checking makeup, reviewing steps. Her door was at the very end, and with every step, Ben felt his stomach tighten with nerves, nearly jumping with nerves at Finn sharply knocking at the door.

“Come in!” The mechanic sucked in a breath, flinching at how cool, how flat the dancer’s voice was through the door, more of a bark than a welcoming invitation. Finn merely shrugged at it, as if it wasn’t strange, and Ben wondered if he had ever seen Rey out of the club, if he had ever since the canary’s demurer side, watching the door swing open, the vanity mirror’s lights bright across the room. She was seated at the dressing table, finishing her makeup, and even though their eyes met in the mirror, she still didn’t seem to place him, clicking her powder compact shut before turning.

“Ben!” With her coo, he softened, smile folding itself into his cheeks before drooping as he squinted at her, awestruck and almost afraid. She seemed to sense this hesitation, her mouth quirking up, but still hopeful, wondering at the change.

This Rey was a different one, a thought that made his steps falter, his heart stutter. She seemed darker in nature, not the light, airy nymph that she was in broad daylight, grin wide and infectious. Here, in the dimmed dressing room, away from prying eyes, not in the spotlight but still fully in her own sphere, she was a siren, danger harmonizing with her lilting laugh. Despite her eyes’ pull, her beckoning hand, he lingered in the doorway, trying to place himself in the details of the room, of her. He wondered if he made a mistake, a thought he quickly shunted aside.

 Her skin looked impossibly soft and smooth in the sleeveless dress, the gold sequins mingling and shimmering on the black silk, face powdered porcelain, lips a dark, artificial red, not the soft kissable pink that he had thought back to for the past week as he fell asleep each night. Her lashes were heavy like her gaze, and a realization hit him, a puff of sweet perfume among the clouds of cigar smoke:

This was the first time he had seen a girl so undressed, so vulnerable, her hair wavy and tousled, as if she just emerged from rolling in someone’s sheets. Ben wasn’t sure how to feel, grimacing as he felt a stirring in his pants, desire taking hold of his frame, despite his manners wanting to offer her his coat, cover her up a bit, keep her away from wolfish gazes, wide smirks. He couldn’t tell if her smile was coquettish or self-conscious as she got up, spreading her arms wide as she approached, embrace gentle and loose around his waist.

“I’m so glad you came.” Just like that, with five words and a hug, now a peck on his neck, the soft girl he knew best returned, wide eyes searching his face, hands smoothing his coat. She looked so much younger in this moment, as if she had been playing in her older sister’s closet, and he yearned for the Rey that wore pants, who didn’t cover her freckles with makeup, who favored practicality over glitter. The Rey whose world he could fit in.

 “You clean up well, cutie.” She laughed at his flushed cheeks, sticking her tongue out at him as he tried to protest. There was a cough behind them, their attention being pulled back to the world as they knew it.

“So you must be Rey.” Poe offered his hand with a smile, eyes sly on his friend. “He hasn’t shut up about you since you started coming around.” Ben grimaced at his friend as Rey laughed, shaking his hand.

“You must be Poe—Ben was sure to complain a bit about you the other day.” The flapper watched the young man’s eyebrows raise before he guffawed. “Fair enough.” She saw his cautious glance, accepted his nod. “I should probably find our chaperone—can’t let him take the best table for himself, can I?”

With that, the door clicked quietly behind him, and Rey considered the boy—the man—before her. She knew that she was fidgeting despite her happiness, smile wide as she stepped back into the circle of his arms, and she wanted to owe it to stage fright, to something besides his heated gaze. But there was a thrill about it, a novelty that made her shiver as one of Ben’s hands absentmindedly traced the curve of her spine, his whisper making her flush.

“Your show posters really didn’t do you justice, doll.”  Her smile was fleeting though, looking up at him as she redirected his hands to her waist, trying to get him to focus on her face. His fingers busied themselves, tracing the sequined pattern of her dress. “Snoke is here tonight.”

Ben’s fingers stopped cold, and Rey sighed, wishing that her news would have been the opposite, that her sweetheart could have had a night with her all to himself, without some old kingpin breathing down their necks, without the danger of “an accident” hanging over their heads.

His smile was unexpected, kissing her hair, murmuring. “I figured as much. Don’t worry about it—we’ll be fine.” She wanted to ask him how he knew, what assurance he had, but there was that sharp knocking on the door, Finn’s voice ringing out in the sudden silent hallway.

“Hey Rey, Mr. Snoke is here to see you.” In a moment, Rey had pushed Ben back, her eyes apologetic as the door burst open. She caught his sloping smile, wondered how he could be so calm before turning, mouth tilted up, faking it. “Evenin’, sir.” She tried to keep her face smooth as her unwanted suitor crossed the room, kissing her cheek, hand resting possessively on her shoulder.

“Twisted” was often the first word that came to mind when describing Snoke, and Ben was found that it extended to his appearance as well, wrinkles mixing in with old grey scars from knives and gunfights of his youth. His lips were thin and, in that crinkled expanse of face, resting under his disfigured nose, they appeared nonexistent, though he was insistent on wetting them, tongue flicking out every so often, like a snake.

The country boy knew that he should have been a bit warier, perhaps even a bit scared, as the gangster’s small dark eyes found him, sized him up. “Rey, you didn’t tell me you had a guest.” He clucked his tongue at her, ignoring how she flinched under his tightened grip. “Go on now: introduce me to this young rascal.” The smirk was forced, the words supposedly being tossed off in good humor, but the room’s occupants knew otherwise.

Rey struggled to open her mouth, to speak, unsure what she could say that would let Ben walk out of this club at the night’s end. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or panicked all the more as his voice cut in, pressure off of her:

“Snoke, right? Nice t’meet’cha! The name’s Kylo—Kylo Ren.” The words rolled off his tongue smoother than expected, and he reminded himself to thank his father later, the old man having insisted that the boy practice his backstory, just a little more life insurance.

He jutted a hand out, and the gangster hesitantly took it, not bothering to mask his disgust. So this was the young man Rey was running around with. He didn’t seem impressive, his posture and face fitting someone lower in the ranks, not a boss in any respect. Still, there was something familiar about his face, the brown eyes and strong jaw harkening back to some other crime boss—but they couldn’t be the same person, so the gangster pushed it aside.  Snoke nearly chuckled at the handshake, his gaze level and sharp on the boy, grip harsh like a vise. Nonetheless, Kylo smirked back at him, leaning forward to whisper in his ear.

“The Falcon wanted to come himself, say hello—but he figured that I probably was enough. He’s wondering where his money is, Snoke. It _has_ been a while…say, what? Thirty years?” In an instance, the old man dropped his hand, as if it burned him, staring hard at his face, aghast as he found the face of his old “business partner” looking back at him from the young man’s visage. The family resemblance was uncanny, and he tried not to shudder with the hearty laughter that burst from Ren’s mouth, the sound uncomfortable in its familiarity.

Ben looked past the trembling man, jerked his head at Rey, who stood, spellbound by the encounter before her. “Come on, doll. Your set is starting soon, right? Can’t keep the people waiting on their star.” She beamed up at him, stepping to his side, trying not to simper at how Snoke seethed and yet shook. The dancer didn’t look back, now safely tucked under the fake gangster’s arm, marveling at the old man’s silence as they left him, the dressing room door swinging shut behind them.

Past the door, Ben found his suitcoat being tugged on, his lips clumsily bumping against Rey’s as she guided his face to meet her, smile exuberant, eyes asking a million questions. “I’ll explain later.” It was a simple answer, but the singer didn’t mind, humming as she kissed him again, his touch electric and exciting, intoxicating with his success as she pulled away.

“You better, Kylo Ren.” With that, she bounded away, to the stage, grinning to herself. Tonight, he’d see her dance—maybe for her last time. Exuberance bubbled through her, and she didn’t think of Snoke, of his gang, gaze finding Ben in the crowd. Tonight, she danced for him.  


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song featured in this chapter is "After You Get What You Want (You Don't Want It)." I highly recommend listening to the Boardwalk Empire version, since that was the rendition that was closest to the feel for the performance. I tried really hard to keep the chapter from feeling like a lyric-fic, so please don't roast me too hard on it. (You can, just be constructive with your roasts lol.) 
> 
> This is a bit of a longer chapter than I anticipated, but since the story has been left alone for a while, I figured you deserve a longer update. The writing is a bit clunkier, but I'm getting back into it. I promise it will get better.

The club, upon second look, was an odd mix of decadence and savagery. Every corner seemed gilt-edged, every tablecloth made of beautiful Egyptian cotton, each waiter’s satin jacket crisp and starched. However, for every lovely thing, there was a dangerous edge to it. At least one gold edge had seen a gangster’s head slammed against it. At least three tablecloths still had specks of blood on them still, and every waiter had a gun tucked away on them somewhere, be it around their calf, under their belt, under their jacket.

Ben had barely sat down, Poe waving him over and yanking him down into the empty seat beside him accordingly, the table set just off the stage, close to the stage’s stairs It was, on all accounts a good view, a fact that the town grocer practically shouted in the mechanic’s ear, trying to compensate for the loud buzz around them. “Finn made sure to sit us close—said that Rey specially asked!” In the next moment, a glass was in front of Ben, and he was tossing back a drink, the alcohol tingling his throat, making him cough.

It had been some time since having good alcohol—true, his father had a still in the basement, but his mother had forbidden its use, probably because she knew Han’s knack for finding the highest bidder but still cheating them out of their money. In a time where the police could come bursting through the door at any point, be it from the tip-off by a suspicious neighbor, or the insider on the force hadn’t been paid off this month, alcohol wasn’t anything Ben had the opportunity to imbibe often. Tonight, he’d make an exception, his nerves a few seconds away from being shot to hell, especially as he thought to Snoke’s puckered scowl when he had glanced back, ushering Rey from the room, the feel of her skin hot and still stinging his hand now, the burn pleasant and headier than the whiskey.

He had been a tremulous voice, a shaking limb, a stuttered fact, away from being shot where he stood, and it still amazed him that he survived. Across the room, he saw the other suitor take a seat, glare smoldering over other people’s heads. Ben had only seen such a look on a snake, years ago when he was younger. The snake—and Snoke—both had a look of concentration, tongue flickering out but eyes never blinking. Not before they struck. Despite this, despite knowing that the mob boss had yet to act, Ben couldn’t help but raise his glass, nodding and perhaps smirking even, knowing that the other man looked his way. The old man nodded back curtly, jerking his eyes away and to the stage.

Ben followed suit, noticing the stage lights were low, waiting to be brought up, Finn’s voice thrumming in the microphone: “Back from her performance at Club Resistance, it’s Miss Light-of-our-Lives herself, the quick-witted, soft-voiced, easy on her feet, our little Rey of Sunshine!”

If Poe had been looking at his friend, disapproving of his goading on of the mob boss, the mechanic didn’t know, his eyes glued to the young woman that the spotlight now targeted, her hands waving in a gracefully arch as she swept onto the middle of the stage, sequins catching the light from every angle.

In Ben’s dreams, the club had been louder, brassy voices echoing in his ears, the words from a song perhaps, or a rough conversation at the next table over. He expected caterwauling, hoots, and hollers as Rey mounted the stage, her painted lips set in a wide smile, cheekily grinning at the audience, heels hollowly clicking against the wood planks she stood upon, looking out. Now, in this moment that he found himself in, taking in the sights he had only read about, it was quieter, the voices around him dropping to a breathless hum, watching the showgirl nod to the band, glance out at the audience, winking as she went.

When her eyes alighted on Ben, Rey’s face instantly softened, and there was a hoot tossed up from the back. “Our girl is blushing! Aw, honey, what’s making you blush?” She laughed at the heckler, her cheeks burning just a little hotter. This show would be a bit harder with Ben here. She thought she had realized it, but no, not the full extent, glancing back at him as she approached the microphone, hands wrapping around it delicately, the only thing she could grasp to keep herself from shaking apart.

With him here, she felt almost silly, almost self-conscious. She hadn’t felt this way since she had first started—in truth, performing night after night was dizzying and fast. One moment, she would blink and find herself sitting back in her dressing room, feet sore, voice raw. This would be the only routine she would probably remember from her career. She hoped that it would be her last performance ever, as well.

Another glance at Ben, at his wide smile, his content eyes, and she couldn’t help but grin, smoothing the black silk that clung to her before nodding again to her band. _Okay, I’m ready._ The breath she took was deep, her eyes glittering with humor as the pianist began to clink at the keys. Even now, even though she knew every step, every word, every shimmy, and shake, Rey found herself combing through the routine, picking it apart, her breathes almost labored with anxiety as her ears pricked up, sensing her cue.

 The intro was cheery and a few bars longer than most unpracticed ears would allow, but she needed every moment for preparation, her stomach fluttering in time with her heart as she forced her gaze up, the lyrics smoothing their way out over her tongue:

_Listen to me, honey dear;_  
_Something's wrong with you, I fear._  
 _It's getting harder to please you,_  
 _Harder and harder each year…_

“She’s a little vaudevillian, isn’t she?” Poe’s voice was loud in Ben’s ear, and the man jumped, nearly swatting his companion and shushing him. “More cabaret, actually.” Came the cool response, Finn sidling up to the table and plopping himself in the empty chair beside him. The girl’s facial expressions were a bit exaggerated, more dramatic and suited to storytelling, but then again, isn’t that what the audience wanted?

. With Poe now whispering back and forth with the announcer, Ben could focus again, his gaze sitting heavy on the girl almost studiously. She hadn’t started dancing yet, though she was swaying a little bit, foot tapping to keep time, especially as the drums picked up:

_I don't want to make you blue,_   
_But you need a talking to…_   
_Like a lot of people I know,_   
_Here's what's wrong with you!_

Off to his side, Ben could hear Finn telling Poe more about the song, about how Rey had picked it as a subtle complaint at Snoke, but still something cheery enough to provide a good show for the rest. The song’s message almost didn’t matter, to be honest, the mechanic’s eyes watching how the sequins on the girl shimmered as she shook. Her feet quickened now, arms swinging as she started her Charleston slowly, the whisking _step-and-tap_ rhythm ticking itself across the wood floor pleasantly. As the tempo picked up, so did her feet, Rey’s hair bouncing with as her twisting legs kicked up, arms above head, smile infectious.

_After you get what you want, you don't want it!_  
 _If I gave you the moon, you'd grow tired of it soon…_  
  
_You're like a baby—_  
 _You want what you want when you want it,_  
 _But after you are presented_  
 _With what you want, you're discontented!_

Her spins were quick and tight, her feet always ready to stop her with a confident air that only practiced experience could give a performer. Rey found Ben’s eyes again, though she knew they hadn’t left her, hadn’t drifted in the slightest. She grinned at him, the smile growing wider now as he returned the look, his frame relaxed and yet ready to burst with pride. Her heart seized for a moment, the thought of being someone’s pride—especially someone like Ben—leaving her breathless for a moment. Her feet didn’t slow, but as she spied the staircase leading down into the audience, so close to him, she almost forgot about the song, inching her way over now.  
_  
You're always wishing and wanting for something._

In an instant, Rey was scampering off the stage, shoes tip-tapping on the stairs as she descended. Ben nearly choked on his drink as she brushed against him, slinging her arms around his neck as she sang on.  
  
_When you get what you want,_  
 _You don't want what you get…_

He was looking up at her now, all wonder and awe and confusion, especially now as she dropped herself down onto his lap. Rey felt dizzy, almost as if she had taken a swig too many of her hip flask before the show, but no, she hadn’t, she hadn’t touched the stuff for days, feeling Ben’s fingers dig into her waist, keeping her rooted. She felt feisty, dangerous, glancing away from her sweetheart, her gentle look easing itself into a glare as Snoke stared back, wrath thinly veiled from the three or so tables that separated them. In a moment, she was smiling again, but with an accusatory finger pointed his way:

_And though I sit upon your knee,_   
_You'll grow tired of me;_   
_'Cause after you get what you want_   
_You don't want what you wanted at all!_

She could practically hear every jaw drop with her pointing finger. She could feel Finn’s desperate hand trying to pull her arm down, could hear the band playing on in vain, wishing that she hadn’t deviated from the routine, that she was still on stage, tapping and singing away. She shouldn’t be relishing in the explosive shout that escaped from Snoke, no longer calm and collected, no longer in control, spittle flying.

For an old man, he moved fast. That was a thought that would repeat itself in her head for the rest of the night. One moment, he was seated, Hux at his elbow, clutching it, trying to keep him down, trying to keep him calm. In the next, he was up, flinging Hux away, the table overturning at his feet, cane clenched in his fist.

Rey was frozen, arms still clasped tightly around Ben, maybe growing tighter as Snoke stalked towards them, shoving waiters and patrons from his wake. There was the crunch of glass, the cracking of food and of bone as he stepped over and on those unfortunates in his way, and there was a shriek that escaped her lips as another one of the chorus girls wailed, her arm limp as she cradled it, mascara smearing with tears. Ben’s hands were gentle on hers, his whisper soft in her ear as the mobster stormed on, face red, practically screaming with rage. “I’ll come back for you, sweetheart.”

Perhaps she fainted, perhaps not—she found herself on the floor, and she was screaming. There was a shadow looming over her, a raised hand, but if the blow was meant for her, it never came, the girl forcing herself out of her recoil, her scream echoing across the marble floor as hands grabbed her harshly, and she kicked as she was yanked up, flailing.

“Ben! Let me go, you brutes! _Ben!”_ It didn’t matter that the hands belonged to Poe and Finn, their words streaming past her face as if they were gusts of wind, meaningless puffs, useless and no better than silence. It didn’t matter that Ben had told them to go on, to run, to get her to safety. She could see him, almost an arm’s length away, his shoulders squared, fists flying, trying to free himself as Hux and some other crony shoved him down onto their table, Snoke sneering down at him.

The blood left Rey’s face as the sharp edge of the mob boss’s cane handle came down, across Ben’s face, the metal slicing all too easy across the man’s tender face. She felt the hands on her fall free, Poe screaming as he charged for his friend, Finn still tugging insistently at her hand.

“Finn, go bring the car around, will ya?” The announcer looked at the chorus girl, her face blank but her eyes wild. She stood tall, still despite the audience members running past her, panicked and fleeing.

“Whatever you’re about to do, Rey, just be smart, okay?” The words were useless, especially as their gazes jerked away from each other, back to Ben as he howled in pain, Snoke smiling cruelly on, digging the cane deeper against the man’s chest, ripping through the jacket, burying into the shirt now. Soon, it’d be skin. A few feet away, Hux struck Poe, again and again, in the face, the stomach, the groin, the grocer unable to defend himself, his hands held behind his head by another gangster.

“Don’t worry about me—get the car. I’ll be out with the boys as soon as I can be, alright?” The begrudgingly look was heavy, and she knew that Finn would hate her for what she was about to do, watching him push past patrons, barreling through the crowd that struggled to get through the door.

The waitstaff was trying to flee now, men streaming from the kitchen and bar, drinks and entrees forgotten. The gun felt heavy in her hand as she wrenched it from the waiter’s waistband as he shoved past her, tripping over her feet anyways in his haste. Despite the weight, there was no hesitation in her chest, just her heart, which thudded like a death knell with every second she could not will her feet to move.

Tonight, her feet would not be sore from dancing, but from running, be it from the law or the First Order. Rey took a breath, snatching an untouched tumbler from a table nearby and tossing back the contents as she strode closer. Before her, Snoke loomed, smirk widening as her sweetheart bled, his breathing labored.

“Hey, Snoke!” The mobster’s eyes were quick to alight on her, his head snapping up to peer at her fully. He looked a second away from laughing at her, the mocking barb drawing his lips apart. Rey didn’t wait for that. She pointed and shot.

 


	5. My Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, and then this story is all done! Thank you so much for your patience, and for reading!!

_Tonight wasn’t supposed to be like this._ Rey knew that the words had pushed past her lips more than once, but as she sat there, blood-flecked on her cheeks, her curls askew, sequins popping from the rip in her dress, and Ben—poor Ben—unconscious on the bed next to her, there didn’t seem to be anything better to say.

She hadn’t missed with her shot. That was one of the last things she remembered before coming to in a hotel room, and it was the second most important thing to remember. She remembered how stunned the old man had looked, his mouth gaping, his eyes widening as he felt the bullet’s punch to his chest, felt Rey’s high-heeled kick to his shin. He had toppled like a house of cards, and what happened to him after that was unimportant. The girl was sure that she had stepped on him to get to her man, Ben’s brown eyes big and scared and threatening to fade fast. She wasn’t sure how they made it out of the club, though her shoulders ached, her feet bloody, Finn hypothesizing that the heels and the burden of trying to carry the tall man had been to blame.

There were spots in her memory, and it should worry her, but it didn’t. She didn’t need to know how or when she had gotten in the car, just that Ben had been beside her. She didn’t need to know how Poe and Finn had gotten the hotel room, the wallpaper a nice blue and the sheets all cotton white and fresh, even now, despite the blood dripping from various nicks and cuts on the group. She didn’t know when Poe had left, just that he went to go warn the Solos to stay low, that the First Order may be on their doorstep soon. She didn’t know when Finn had followed suit, his face pale as he wandered out, promising to talk to the police, to bribe them to turn a blind eye, to convince the gang to do the same—or perhaps even seek protection from another gang entirely.

Rey didn’t know a lot of things that had happened as she sat beside her boy, his hair wet from the shower stream Poe had dragged him under, his bloody clothes replaced with pajamas (courtesy of the hotel at Finn’s request), gauze winded around his head, covering the right side of his face, his eye hidden under the cotton wraps, his other eye closed in a restless sleep. She knew that she should shower, should curl up in the robe that Finn had set aside for her, should try to forget and not think at all, but instead, she repeated what she did know. Her fingers tugged at the pearls around her neck, her grip slipping and sliding up and down the jeweled rope, as if it was a rosary, as if she was praying instead of recounting sins and facts.

Snoke was dead.

Hux was gone.

The First Order was probably looking for her.

For the moment, though, Ben was safe. And that’s what mattered, truly, at the moment. She brought her knees up, curling her arms around herself as she rested her head, eyes heavy. “I’m sorry.” The words seemed to echo against the walls, the room too large for just her and Ben, the privacy nice but isolating. She took a breath, let it go, feeling how she shook still, how her hands trembled against her legs as she thought back to where she had gone wrong. Stupid, stupid girl. “Tonight wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“I don’t mind.” Rey jolted now, startled. She could feel Ben chuckle, the bed shaking slightly with the sound, and a sob bubbled up in her throat. She tried to gulp it down, tried not to choke on it as he turned to face her, his one uncovered eye alighting on her with a sheepish smile.

“Hey.” The word was soft, forgiving, gentle, and the smile that Rey offered up in return was a watery one, tears leaving tracks on her powdered cheeks, Rouge smearing as Ben lifted his hand, brushed away a tear with his thumb.

There was a lot that she could say in this moment. Another apology, a wail of gratitude, of sorrow. She could tell him that she loved him, and that thought made her tense and then relax. It wouldn’t be wrong to say that, and though her heart pounded in alarm, her mind was serene, a smile curling up at the corners of her mouth.

“Hey, yourself.” Ben cracked a smile, and Rey fought a sob that tried to well up, a hand finding the man’s hair, fingers gentle as they stroked the damp tendrils of hair, ventured down onto his smooth cheek, now to his lips.

“You’re a lot more fragile than you look, Benjamin.” She tried to be stern as if he was the one who deserved the scolding when she knew that she was the only one to blame. He caught her hand, pressed a kiss to her palm, his innocent smile giving way to a smirk as she shivered with the chaste gesture, cheeks pinking.

“Don’t worry. The scar will toughen me up a bit more, don’t you worry.” Ben watched her face brighten and then her brow furrow and her mouth crumple, lips quivering as she bit them, trying to keep her tears at bay. It hurt to sit up, but still, the man pulled himself up as quickly as he could, pulling the girl towards him as she cowered, face in hands. Her sobs wracked her small frame even as he cooed at her, his shushing noises gentle in her ears, fading ever so slightly as he pressed kisses to her hair, her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth.

They remained like that for a long time, Rey’s cries calming ever so slightly before she trembled again and the tears started fresh again. Ben peppered her with kisses and sweet words, her weight slight on his lap as he rocked her. Every time she tried to apologize, he shook his head, the gesture sweet but firm. He knew that this would happen when he walked into that club. He knew from the moment he asked to come see her dance. He knew, and so she had nothing to be sorry for.

She was a mess. It was a realization he made fondly, remnants of makeup caked to her cheeks, running together muddily. He knew that some of the color was blood, that she carried evidence of both the good and the bad of the night. He wanted to fix that. He wanted her to feel better.

Ben had expected her to resist, to scold him, as he gingerly slipped from bed to stand, his arms coming down to swoop her up into them. If anything, she eased the transition, head lolling against his shoulder as he carried her into the bathroom, his movements slow, calculated to save him from pain. As he ran the water, drawing her a hot bath, he kept his back to her. True, they both had experienced trauma tonight, but it did not excuse any wayward look from him as she pulled off the dress, rolled down the stockings. When she sank into the water, sighing at the heat of it, Ben turned to go, eyes still averted like a gentleman.

“Stay with me.” Her words were soft, and the man seemed to stutter in his steps, unsure of what to do. She dripped a bit of water on him as she reached for his hand, already pruning fingers wrapping around his dry ones. “Please. Just for a moment.”

They sat, unspeaking, the only sounds breaking the silence is the water as Rey shifted in the tub and the sighs of relief that slipped from her lips. She would have been okay with the silence, Rey was sure. She had had quite enough of shouting and music and tinkling glasses, and the steady push and pull of Ben’s breaths as he sat beside the tub was calming and crystalline. She could listen to it all day. He cleared his throat, and she expected the spell to break, but it remained even as he began to talk.

“The First Order may come after you.” He didn’t expect her to nod, to confirm because he already knew. Still, it comforted him that she responded, her head dipping with the nod.

“You’re going to need to hide for a little while.” Another nod, the water splashing as she lifted an arm to pass the soap across it.

“A new name may help with that.” There was a pause from her, and Ben wondered how stupid he was, wondered what he was getting at, and if he ever got to it, what would she say? What would she think?

“Are you suggesting what I think you may be trying to suggest, Ben Solo?” Her tone was apprehensive, but there was a lilt of hope there too, and he turned, the girl smiling at him now.

“I guess what I’m suggesting is that…if you want, I’m sure my folks won’t mind a daughter-in-law. Or just loaning the family name to someone who needs it!” He scrambled to fix his foolhardy statement, but Rey’s smile made him pause, looking at her, studying her face, trying to guess her answer. “What do you think?”

“I’m not about to take anyone’s last name so fast, Ben.” He could feel his face fall for a moment, but his heart didn’t have time to mourn, only to celebrate as she continued, “You need to properly court me first. I am still a lady, after all.”

The look he gave her was rapturous, and Rey supposed that was her favorite look on her man’s face, his grin infectious as she giggled back. “Although I do really like the sound of it. It slips off the tongue much better than my last name. Rey Kenobi. Rey Solo. Mrs. Ben Solo. Rey Solo.”

The girl shrieked with laughter as the man happily lunged at her, his lips meeting her cheeks, her forehead, her lips as if his kisses were rapidly fired fireworks. Her name with his was like a song, and for once, he would know the steps too. He could dance with her to this tune just fine.

 

When Poe and Finn returned, they found the lovebirds cuddled together on the bed, Ben’s hands lazily buried in Rey’s hair as he braided it, the little dancer clean and glowing in the hotel’s bathrobe, her smile wide, her brow relaxed, her conscious clear. They’d save their news, even though it’s good, both parties decided.

No, tonight wasn’t supposed to be like this—but perhaps that’s how it had meant to be all along.


	6. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe that this is the end! Thank you so much for reading this story--it's been so fun to write, and I hope it was just as fun to read. Thank you so much!

Things had barely changed for the Solos unless you took the time to look. The filling station still stood where it always had, unharmed, just like the homestead set behind it. There was a smaller house across the yard from the original, bigger structure, but the nice, neat little white and blue cottage seemed like it had always been there, that you just had to squint and rub your eyes and behold, there it was.

The Solos were the same, except Ben had a scar across his face and sometimes he winced if you jokingly poked him in the chest too hard, a fact that his friend Poe could attest to. Oh, and there was a new Solo who wasn’t quite a Solo—a girl with an edge to her unless you talked to her around Ben, when her hazel eyes were soft and her brown hair was down and she was wearing his old clothes and helping him in the garage.

If you were an outsider, you couldn’t really spot the differences in the Solos’ life as opposed to their life the year before. And honestly, Ben couldn’t really tell the difference either—he was too focused on Rey to really stop to think about the change.

He caught her singing every so often. It wasn’t too much—a snatch of a tune she sang at the club as she hung up clothes on the line with his mother, some humming as she brushed her hair, maybe a full song when she helped him open the store in the morning. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to make Ben smile, his hand instantly reaching for hers to trace the lines on her palm, much like how his fingers still reached up to trace his scar, the reflex begrudgingly formed and fondly kept.

The scar sometimes was the only thing that reminded Ben that things had changed. Rey had taken to his simple life seamlessly, despite her initial hesitation to leave the city. She knew that it was for the best, that she needed to get out and away, even if the police had cleared her of wrongdoing in Snoke’s death. It hadn’t made it easier for her though, a fact that he and his parents tried to rectify.

Han looked the other way when it became apparent that Rey preferred to sleep in Ben’s bed, for the sake of her nightmares, her worries. Leia strove to keep the girl busy, teaching her how to cook, how to clean, how to relax and be herself again. The former dancer smiled less now, true, but when she did, the look was genuine and long lasting, not the fleeting and flickering ones she had given out as a performer.

The sun still rose the same on the fill-up station, the rays slanting through the blinds as Ben trotted through the narrow aisles of the station’s store. The shelves were stocked the same, little cans of oil and car fluid neatly tucked side by side, their packaging still bright blue and red. The icebox still hummed in the corner, and as he rounded an aisle end, there was Rey, crouched in front of it, carefully stocking it with a new shipment of soda pop. Set away from her but still within reach was an open pop and the radio, the volume barely tuned, the man straining to hear the music that slipped from the device.

If there was something that Ben Solo knew about Rey, it’s that she liked things quiet. She had insisted on it throughout their courtship, an oft-repeated condition said more for her benefit than his. Since that night in the club, she couldn’t stomach too much excitement, and any nights out for them were spent at the movies, the room dark, the music soft, their voices quiet as they read the dialogue cards to each other.

Sometimes, they would try to mimic how they thought the actors actually sounded, their accents and impressions over-exaggerated and always hilarious. Sometimes, Rey would accompany the orchestra’s music with her voice, sometimes singing, sometimes humming, always tapping the tune into Ben’s palm. And sometimes, they would be quiet, their only communication being how they squeezed each other’s hands.

 One squeeze for “Pay attention!” Two squeezes for “How funny!” Three squeezes for “I love you.”

For Rey, she wanted—no needed—things to be simple, almost bland, just calm. She didn’t need anything flashy or expensive or extravagant. She just needed peace.

He didn’t mind—even though she no longer was a “wild girl”, Rey had a way of making the mundane the most exciting event of his life. Dinner every night had become occasions of boisterous laughter and jokes with the occasional clanking of dishes thrown into the melody. A regular work day was always made special by her sitting next to him in the workshop, their conversation light and flowing easier than wine at the nightclub, their hands meeting as she passed him tools, her laughter echoing in the garage if he got a bit of grime on her cheek, some oil on her dress.

Months had melted into each other easily this way, and to Ben, it seemed that his mother was tearing off the old month’s page off the kitchen calendar every other day. Spring slipped into summer, and then it was fall, and then suddenly it was winter, and now it was spring again, the weather wet and trying to warm up in vain, but Ben couldn’t find it in him to mind the cold.

It meant that the bed would feel extra warm, extra cozy with Rey under the covers with him, her arms slim and secure around his waist, her underclothes creased with sleep every morning. It meant that she would slip next to him in the kitchen more frequently, her fingers cool as she squeezed his hand before he handed her another dish to dry, the breeze from the window cold but fresh. It meant that the former dancer would be smirking the next time she held his hand and pressed her wedding band into his palm to make him jump at the cold metal, her giggle infectious and addictive. (It was the only reason why he let her keep doing it, even if it did bother him a little bit.)

Oh, right—that’s another thing that had changed. Marriage. The ring had been on Rey’s finger since autumn, doubling as her engagement ring until the winter ceremony a few weeks after the last of the First Order gang had been rounded up with a little help from Finn. That had been part of the former announcer’s wedding gift to the couple—a check for a hundred dollars and the guarantee that that troublesome gang would never show up at their doorstep, especially on their wedding night.

The wedding itself had been a quiet affair, and for that the groom was grateful. Finn had given Rey away and Poe had stood as the best man. Leia beamed at the couple the entire time and even Han managed a gruff smile as the preacher (Ben’s uncle Luke) pronounced them man and wife. It was small, and it was perfect.

“Ben?” Rey’s words were soft, and the man shook himself out of his thoughts, his smile wide still from the memory of his bride’s bright grin when he had leaned in to kiss her that night. He leaned down now, his large hands finding her thickening waist naturally as he pulled her close, pecking her on the forehead.

“What can I do for you, sweetheart?” She gestured down at the remaining flat of soda, her half smile apologetic as she stepped closer to lean her head against him.

“Can you carry that to the back for me? It’s just heavy enough that I’m afraid that I might strain something, and you know how the doctor scolded me about that, with the baby on the way and all.”

“Of course.” The smile was wider on his lips now, the soda pops’ weight light in his arms as he carried them back. It was the least that he could do for her at the moment, especially since she was carrying his child. Or children, the thought making his cheeks hurt as he grinned, remembering his mother warning him about how twins ran in the family.

The radio was louder when he came back, and Rey was swaying lightly in time with the music, her hands cradling her small bump, her voice soft as she sang. It was a sight that made Ben pause in the doorway, leaning against it as he watched in wonder at this special sight.

Rey didn’t dance much anymore. Not by herself, anyway. The moment had to be right: a jazz song on the radio, usually the sun setting low as they washed up after dinner, towels over their shoulders as Ben twirled her around the kitchen. The last time she had put on her dancing shoes, it had been their wedding and that was a different story, thank you very much.

“Are you going to keep watching, or are you going to dance with me?” The words were soft but teasing, and the mechanic pushed himself off of the doorframe, towards his wife, taking her into his arms just as the music slowed as if to accommodate them. Rey's smile was just as sweet as it was the first time he had seen her, and though the memory was just as sweet, Ben couldn't help but be grateful that they were no longer just "the dancer" or "the mechanic" to each other. They were so much more, and for him, that was the only change that mattered.


End file.
